


All the Ashes in Our Wake

by StormLeviosa



Series: The Lowest and Vilest Alleys [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Gotham by Gaslight (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Batfamily (DCU), Damian Wayne is Robin, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Not Canon Compliant, Not yet though, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock Holmes References, Tags May Change, The League of Assassins (DCU), at all, eventually, it's for like 2 sentences in the prologue though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2020-12-14 20:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21021713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormLeviosa/pseuds/StormLeviosa
Summary: Damian thought he knew what his life would be. All his life, he's had a purpose: Be his grandfather's loyal heir, be worthy of inheriting the Batman mantle, lead the league of assassins and rule the world (eventually). Meeting his father, becoming a part of his family, changes all of that.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, umm, I'm sorry?  
That hiatus was impressive, I know. I really can't apologise enough if you've been waiting for me to post something all summer. I don't want to get into it now but if you want to know why check out my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/storm-leviosa-fanfics) or, the short version is that my mental health basically went down the toilet. But I'm back now!
> 
> I've honestly been sitting on this for ages. My only real experience with Damian as a character (and he appears after this prologue) is through the animated films and that one comic that he's introduced in where he tries to kill Tim. If you have been following my tumblr updates, I've posted a few six sentence sundays from this over the course of the summer but I finally have a drafted first chapter (after this one) so I'm comfortable enough that I won't end up leaving this hanging... hopefully.
> 
> Just a warning, there's a brief allusion to Talia and Bruce's kind of dodgy relationship and the non-con type stuff (it's tagged but I thought I'd warn you anyway in case you didn't see it). It's in the fourth paragraph from "they ate well that night" to the end of the paragraph which isn't that long or actually explicit but if you want/need to skip over it, do.

Long before Batman was even a figment of Bruce’s imagination, when he was still young and naïve enough to believe that Gotham didn’t need a saviour, he travelled. He wanted to learn, to know everything there was to know, so long as it couldn’t be learnt from a book. His ship docked at Aden and from there he travelled alone, on foot or on horseback where he could, surrounded by languages he did not speak and people he did not know. He travelled north up the coast of the Red Sea, exploring the desert and stopping off wherever took his fancy: Medina, Tabouk, Jerusalem, all the way up to Damascus; then west to Baghdad where he hopped on a camel train through the desert for hundreds of miles to Islamabad. He stayed there for weeks, reacquainting himself with relative luxury after months on the road. It was not much, when he grew bored of this new city, to head east again to another.

He met Ra’s al Ghul in Kabul without intending to. He had not expected to be followed across the city for giving a child a piece of bread; it was only a small kindness, not one worthy of admiration. Yet in spite of Bruce’s disregard, the man had invited him to lunch. It was a far more lavish meal than Bruce had expected from a stranger but the stranger soon proved to be more than Bruce’s match. He opened Bruce’s eyes to a whole new kind of cruelty that afternoon and it left him flabbergasted. Ra’s told him about the empires of Britain and Spain and Holland and France, about their ruthlessness and savagery, about the oppressed masses across the Orient. Bruce ate it up. He’d always had a soft spot for the downtrodden and the underdog. He watched the people scurrying around them with new eyes, saw the way they averted their eyes away from his unfamiliar, still resolutely white, face, the way mothers pulled their children closer to their skirts and men looked over their shoulders as they hurried away. Ra’s said he was trying to fight back and win freedom for the nations under colonial rule. Bruce could sympathise with such a cause; when he left for his mountain home, deep in the Hindu Kush, Bruce followed.

Nanda Parbat was beautiful in a way only possible outside of Gotham. Bruce hated it. He stayed because of Ra’s and because he was learning more than he’d ever learnt at home, more even than he’d learnt that dark and terrible night outside the theatre. Ra’s had provided the best teachers under his employ for Bruce to learn from, teachers of sword fighting and language and history and science and all kinds of martial arts. He learned to incapacitate and kill a man with his bare hands from a man whose face remained covered by a scarf for as long as he taught him. He learned which plants were poisonous, and which could save a life, in the only way the league knew. He knew their scents and their colours and their tastes on his tongue. He knew how the victim would suffer and how long it would take them to die. And in the evening there was chess with Ra’s, followed by supper with his family. Ra’s had an intriguing family, but it was his youngest daughter that Bruce found himself fascinated by. They were waited on by exotic girls in silks of every colour and unparalleled beauty, Ra’s assured him, but it was Talia whose tentative smile made the world seem a little sharper. Her wit was surpassed only by her father’s and they talked of art and music and all manner of things expected of a seasoned socialite. Her brother, Dusan was ruthlessly charming and her sister Nyssa was considered a great beauty but Bruce did not care about those things as much as the world thought he should and it had always gotten him in trouble back in Gotham. Talia was safe: not the oldest daughter or the male heir but smart and pretty enough to be interesting. She knew he was reluctantly fond of her, fluttered her eyelashes and asked him about American high society, slotted herself into his life expertly. When Dusan left and did not return, when Nyssa fought bitterly with her father, he did not notice.

He beat Ra’s at chess and was informed he’d passed the final test. He was to be inducted into the league officially at sunset the next day. Talia was pleased and as a result was far more affectionate than usual, stroking his leg under the table and resting her head on his shoulder. They ate well that night and drank deeply. Bruce was more than a little inebriated when Talia led him from their dining hall to a room laid with soft pillows and silk sheets. The smell of sweet smoke and flowers was heady and overwhelming to his compromised mind. When Talia lay him down on a feather bed, he did not resist. She did everything methodically: took off his robe before moving his hands to remove hers, kissed her way up to his face which she took in her strong, eager hands, moved her body in all the right ways so she was lying, ravenous and lusty, beneath him. “I will be the first to give my father an heir,” she breathed between gasping kisses. “You will provide my father with his first grandchild, detective.” The scent and feel and taste of her filled him and he didn’t remember anything after that.

When morning came, Talia was gone, and the room was no longer filled with plush pillows and the heady scent of her perfume. He wasn’t surprised. Part of him was still halfway convinced it had been some kind of fever-dream. There were still many hours to pass until sunset but boredom was impossible in Nanda Parbat, not when there were ancient texts to read and katas to practice. First, though, there was breakfast.

Later, slipping on his robe, he mused on what his induction would entail. Induction into the League of Shadows was one of its most sacred rituals and Bruce himself had never seen one, only heard rumours of great feats of strength and courage. He did not allow uncertainty to taint him, could not, for that way led ruin and in this endeavour he could not fail. After a light meal, Ra’s’ men dispersed to do their work but Bruce stayed. Approaching the dais upon which Ra’s stood, he felt a flicker of unease rise in his gut but clamped it down. There was nothing to fear in Nanda Parbat. Ra’s had been good to him, taught him, given him anything he could ever need. And yet there was a cold gleam in Ra’s’ eyes and the part of him that remembered the night before, with Talia, knew that no man who was truly good and proper could behave how the al Ghuls did. There was more caution in his steps now than there had been before. Bowing before Ra’s felt like giving up part of his soul to a demon and he didn’t quite know why but his intuition had yet to steer him wrong: he had to be careful from here on.

Ra’s took him to a room made of stone with only flickering torches to give them light. It was cold, far colder than Bruce had ever imagined it could get in this part of the world, and he shuddered beneath his thin robe. At the far end of the hall, a man knelt, bound by his hands and feet, his hair an unkempt mane around his face. He was a white man, Bruce could see, probably one of the British soldiers stationed in the region who had stumbled upon one of Ra’s’ traps. Behind him was a soft green glow, barely stronger than the torches on the walls. “Who is he?” Bruce asked without turning.

“I’m afraid he wouldn’t say. Make him talk.”

Bruce did.

The man’s name was John Watson, and he was a doctor for the English regiment stationed near Charasiab. He was from a town Bruce didn’t recognise but he knew was vaguely in the north of England. One of the men in his care had gone missing and, against orders, he’d gone searching for him. Rather than find the hapless soldier, he’d found something no man would ever escape from alive: Nanda Parbat. Bruce could appreciate his dedication and tenacity in searching for his fellow soldier for the Hindu Kush were not easy to navigate or to survive in without intimate experience with such conditions. Truthfully, such devotion was unfathomable to Bruce. One of the first lessons Ra’s taught him was that a missing man is a dead man closely followed by grief being a futile, graceless emotion that it is far better not succumb to. That this ordinary man would risk his life to retrieve the body of a man he was not even related to… it seemed insane. And while Bruce was struck dumb, the prisoner was still speaking. “You seem a right honourable bloke, why do you obey this… this madman? He will kill me, and when he’s done, he’ll kill all my men, my brothers, your countrymen. Have you no compassion? Have you no care for the husbands and fathers and brothers that will lose their lives because of your betrayal?” Ra’s put a sword in his hand, heavy and gleaming.

“He has told us enough. You know what you must do.” The man was shaking, muttering prayers under his breath, but when Bruce raised the sword, he cried out in horror. “My son will never know his father and I have left my wife a widow; what will become of them when they learn of my death at the hands of the truest demon the Lord ever faced me with?” Bruce hesitated. Lowering the sword slightly, he asked the man to name his son, “Peter,” he told him, “and my wife is Mary.” His sharp breath echoed in the chamber and briefly the glint of his blade was a glint of a very different kind and the glowing of the torches was the soft yellow of a gaslight illuminating a pool of blood, a body… Bruce blinked the image away.

“Do your duty,” Ra’s hissed, “and you will rule at my side for a hundred years or more.” Bruce made his decision.

He dropped the sword.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian arrives in Gotham, ready to meet his father for the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while... again. Sorry about that.  
Hopefully, this chapter makes up for it; it's actually been written and waiting for probably about a month now but I wanted to get close to finished with chapter 2 first (which I almost have now).  
I discovered you can use the NaNoWriMo website all year round so I started up a tracker and hopefully that will keep me on task.

Gotham was cold, Damian decided. As much as he was used to the freezing temperatures of the mountains and the desert at night, the kind of cold that stung against his cheeks and turned the tip of his nose blue, Gotham’s cold pervaded every inch of his body, crept beneath the layers of his clothes and turned his bones to ice. He despised it. The buildings were drab and grey, and the people even more so. Gargoyles and brutal spires split the skyline and in the few days he had spent in the city since docking in the harbour the rain had yet to cease. He did not know how he was to live here without going mad. Swinging skirts and leather cases bounced off his legs as the working men and women went about their evenings without looking up from their feet. Most ignored him. Some glimpsed his white silk shalwar and kameez and stared with eyes narrowed in suspicion before their gaze slipped away lethargically. Gotham was dead, Damian decided. Damian knew death well, had danced between its blades and doled it out to his grandfather’s enemies, and Gotham’s people were mere ghosts among the ruins of an ugly, outdated world. When he found his father, when the city was cleansed until it ran red and slick with blood, when he delivered his grandfather’s beautiful new world, perhaps the people would recover and learn to live. First, he had to remove the sickness from the city’s heart, however, and for that he needed his father. His father was a noble, brave warrior, his mother had told him, strong and clever and wily enough to escape Nanda Parbat with his life. The stories she told rivalled those of legendary heroes told by the servants. Pulling his hood further over his head, he glanced upwards to the rooftops. If the growing darkness was anything to go by, the Batman should be out and about soon and then maybe he’d finally meet the man his mother called ‘beloved’.

It was not hard to find Bruce Wayne in Gotham. The manor house in which he lived was beyond the city limits but it was not unusual to see him out and about within the city itself, frequenting Gentleman’s clubs, theatres and galleries, public parks, even the factories and office blocks that made up the family corporation when the mood struck him. He was as philanthropic as he had always heard, giving money to the beggar children on street corners and hot drinks to the labourers on their lunch break. It confused Damian: why his father had abandoned his place with the league when they were motivated by such similar causes. He saw his father often with another woman, a dark-haired, dark-eyed harlot who caused a ruckus in the park and stirred up trouble with other women, shouting and screaming and making a fuss. She was far from his mother’s equal. Batman was harder to find, part myth and part shadow that he was. There were rumours of what he was up to, who he was hunting, where his current favoured roosts were, but all were here-say and nothing more. Damian did not rely on such useless intelligence when planning his missions. He waited and he watched and he listened and eventually he found him… or rather, he found his sidekick.

Magpie was small and scrappy, always had been, and although Damian knew the child behind the mask was not the original, it seemed the city did not. He supposed it was a credit to whoever it was who had stolen the mantle, that he knew Jason Todd’s habits well enough to fool a city. It was strange that Magpie was so well known and loved, Robin too, and yet Batman was still little more than a legend. Perhaps it was that children made for better, more relatable characters for a bedtime story. Or perhaps Magpie and Robin saved the little people, saved people who could walk the streets to tell of it, while Batman targeted the criminals who wouldn’t escape to leak the truth of who put them away. In any case, Magpie was far easier to track down than Batman, but Batman would always check in with Magpie once every two hours on the dot. It was not unusual to see them working together, and that was when Batman was at his most gentle and most vicious. If he closed his eyes, Damian could almost imagine it was him standing beside his father as they prepared for battle, proudly flaunting a costume of his own. If he opened them again, it was another boy beside him, the ever watchful, ever devoted partner.

He had watched his father from afar for three days and three nights and the man had yet to notice. Bruce Wayne was alarmingly relaxed for someone so targeted. Batman was paranoid to the point of blindness, so certain that enemies lay in wait that he missed seeing those his mind did not fabricate for him. This would need to be rectified, of course, and Damian would see it done. He had hovered, watching, on the fringes of both his lives, uncertain of how to introduce himself, of what his father would expect from him. In truth, he was still unsure. That night, Damian found the Bat perched on a rooftop by the docks, watching a disreputable opium importer transfer ownership of his stock to an equally perfidious dealer. The dealer’s gang was responsible for several deaths across the city, Damian knew, and the man must atone for his sins. The importer began to walk away and Damian saw Batman’s cloak settle slightly around his shoulders as he prepared to leap into action. A woman screamed. Batman turned. He moved. He was gone. Incredulously, Damian tracked his movement. Why would he run to the aid of one woman when he could save many lives by taking in this man? If his father was so incompetent… well then, Damian would just have to do it himself.

His sword slid free of its sheath with a soft _schink_. Readying his cloak so that his face was better covered, he slid down to a balcony. He made no sound as he leapt to street level. The gleam of the gaslights flickered off his blade, and he slunk closer under the relative cover of the shadows. A movement to his left. His sword leapt forward and the threat was gone without a sound. He followed in silence as the gang entered the warehouse. The dealer ordered his men to check each crate. Damian struck. One, two, three men gone to meet their maker. One more left and then their boss. Their boss stood frozen in shock in the doorway. Damian’s eyes flickered between the two men. He made a decision. The boss had to go first. His sword was red with the blood of his enemies and the rush that came with combat sung in his veins. He bounded forwards, sword swinging; the man’s hands came up to protect his head. Damian feinted downwards and then leapt upwards, body arching in a perfect flip as his foot shot out to knock the man to the floor. Sword pressed to his neck, Damian hissed a warning to the last remaining henchman. “Leave now or die with your pathetic excuse for an employer, ingrate.” The henchman left. Turning his attention to his captive, he spoke in a low and dangerous voice. “You do not deserve the honour of a quick and painless death. Unfortunately, I have little else to offer you but a death by my sword, though it is far more than you are worthy of. Your men are dead. Hopefully that is punishment enough.” The man twisted briefly, let out a sigh, like Damian would ever dream of letting him go. He swung his sword back a touch, but only to gather some force. It was unnecessary. His sword slid through flesh and sinew and bone like a knife through butter. What a trophy to bring his father: the head of the man he’d been hunting.

He knew where his father lived. The manor house on the outskirts of the city was the only place worthy of a man such as the affluent Bruce Wayne. Imposing and grim, the grey stone was unspeakably foreboding in the dark but Damian wasn’t scared. He was Ibn al Xu’ffasch; he struck fear into the hearts of his enemies. And yet, he mused, as he climbed the twisted gate, the thought of finally meeting his father, of being subjected to his judgement, was enough to make him apprehensive. Mother had told him everything: his greatness, his might, his strength and intelligence, his goodness. He valued loyalty and courage, she had told him, would fight for the people under his protection to his dying breath. Damian was to inherit that legacy when he was worthy. It was a lot to live up to. Not that he wasn’t more than up to the challenge! Damian had been raised among the most tenacious, vicious fighters on Earth; he was not the type to flinch away from a fight. It was just that his father had already picked other children that weren’t Damian. He already had an heir, though not one of his own, superior, breeding. He did not know about Damian and though his mother had said it would be the most pleasant of surprises, Damian couldn’t help but wonder whether his father truly needed or wanted another soldier in his crusade.

He considered walking up to the front door, but he wasn’t certain that his father would have returned yet or that the household staff would still be awake to admit him. He also wasn’t certain where the exterior entrance to his father’s base of operations was, however, and that limited his options. All the windows were closed and latched except for one on the second floor. It was tucked away next to a drainpipe and partially obscured by ivy but that just made it easier for Damian to get to. With silent feet, he ran across the grass to the base of the wall. His prize was still in the sack and it bounced against his back. He knew better than to carry it while climbing: one of the first rules he’d learnt while climbing the treacherous mountains near Nanda Parbat was to always keep three limbs on the rocks at all times, but it would not be easy to climb with it tied to his belt. The weight of it would undoubtedly throw off his balance and make it much harder to climb without getting tangled. He nonetheless made quick work of the first half of the climb, stopping briefly to consider his next move when the ivy thinned. He would have to use the drainpipe, precarious though it seemed. He could feel it creaking under his weight and climbed faster. He was almost at the top, only a few metres left to go. Hands slick with sweat and mist, he slipped slightly and caught himself on the rough stone of the wall. The drain pipe creaked a little louder, and he paused, pressed flat against the wall, but no one appeared to be awake to investigate. He scrambled up the rest of the wall to the window ledge and gripped it tightly, breathing hard. When his legs had stopped trembling, he braced himself and slid the window up. It creaked but no one within stirred. Only then did he climb into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is taking me a long time to write for a few reasons so please be patient. I have no update schedule so it'll be updated when it's ready and not before.   
Please leave kudos or a comment, they make me super happy!  
Also, check me out on tumblr (@storm-leviosa-fanfics) for progress updates and the occasional excerpt. I've joined some group chats so if you want to chat you can catch me on those or message me privately (my ask box is always open)

**Author's Note:**

> I think I spent about an hour mapping out the route from Aden to Kabul. It's long but I'm pretty sure it's possible. Aden was one of the largest ports in the Arabian Peninsula for most of history and was a British colony for well over a century. Medina is a major part of the hajj (the Islamic pilgrimage) from what little I remember of year 8 RE, Tabouk is a small town about halfway between Medina and Jerusalem famous for having loads of archeology stuff, and everywhere else should be reasonably well known. 
> 
> I made Ra's an anti-imperialist because in canon he's an eco-terrorist but there's not really a Victorian era equivalent for that and colonialism seems like the kind of thing he'd get annoyed about. I know I get annoyed about it, anyway. The empires mentioned were the major colonial powers during that time (this is the time when the british empire was at its strongest).
> 
> There are a few mentions of a war going on. This will be more relevant later but it is one of many Anglo-Afghan wars that took place in the area. I literally scrolled through wikipedia and looked up place names that came up until I found some that were reasonably close to where I needed them to be. 
> 
> So yeah, I think that's everything for now. I'll try to get a bit further ahead so I can start trying to formulate a posting schedule but I'm not making any promises.
> 
> If you haven't already, check out my tumblr (@storm-leviosa-fanfics). I post the occasional update on there about how writing's going and little previews and stuff. Check it out, leave me an ask or a message if you want to chat about anything.
> 
> Let me know what you think with a kudos or a comment! Feedback is super important to us writing people (and god knows I'm getting nothing useful off my seminar group for anything I write!)


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